Blackthorne Samhain
by owlcroft
Summary: It's Halloween in Scotland, but the judge and Mark must deal with the mysterious figure in black and an increasingly irritated ghost.


A/N: This story first appeared in the last STAR for Brian 'zine. Thank you all for your support and encouragement.

_Synopses of previous Blackthorne stories:_

"_Lord Mark" - Mark McCormick is stunned to learn that he's a possible heir to an earldom in Scotland. He and his legal adviser (Judge Hardcastle, natch) are invited to visit the estate and provide additional information about his forebears. Mark and the judge quickly win over the staff of servants with their innate charm and Yankee ideas of equality, and the townspeople are soon enchanted with the possible Earl as well. Then the judge, awakened by an unknown agency, discovers that the servants are plotting to find an Earl to fit their own ends and, in a confrontation the next day, McCormick learns that the estate is near bankruptcy and needs a wealthy heir to save it. Assuming Mark was the owner of Gull's Way (as well as the one-of-a-kind Coyote), the staff schemed to make him the Earl to save Blackthorne, but the sudden appearance of the family lawyer brings startling news._

"_Return to Blackthorne" - Hardcastle and McCormick go back to Mark's estate in Scotland to help out at the annual church f__ê__te and to protect the Blackthorne ghost from a psychic investigator. Steak and mushroom pie is featured in a lunch with legal overtones and Mark formally opens the f__ê__te as Earl of Blackthorne. The ghost is unusually communicative and is successfully protected from the Man from S.P.O.N.G.E. The guys meet a "gypsy fortune teller", do a little fishing, and get to wear their kilts at the formal Blackthorne dinner. _

For Nancy, with gratitude. The staircase didn't make it, but the room's there. Thanks!

BLACKTHORNE SAMHAIN

by

Owlcroft

A figure trod cautiously at the foot of the wall. It was the northeastern corner of the east wing of Blackthorne Manor, and the rhododendrons were losing their foliage rapidly, leaves piling up across the freezing ground in a dry carpet that never managed to impede the haste of the furtive shadow. The footsteps crackled to the base of the foundation, where they quieted briefly, before fading off around the corner to the lawn used for cricket and croquet. Only the bats and an owl noticed and they had better things to do than wonder who was out at 3 a.m. and why.

ooooo

"What?" asked McCormick, glancing at the slumped figure in the desk chair.

"Huh?" The judge lifted his head, then shook it. "Nothing."

McCormick looked at him closely. "Judge, are you all right?"

"'Course I'm all right. What's the matter with _you_?" Hardcastle puffed out his chest belligerently. "There's nothing the matter with _me_."

Mark crossed his arms and regarded the older man affectionately. "Oh, yeah? Then why are you reading the paper upside down?"

The judge rattled the offending newspaper irritably, then tossed it onto the concrete of the patio. "Ah, well," he passed a hand across his hair, "I was just thinking, that's all."

"About . . .?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Just stuff."

Mark dragged another chair over and dropped into it. "What kinda stuff?" he asked patiently.

Hardcastle drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Leaves turning color and pulling sweaters out of the closet. Ducks flying south and corn stalks in the fields. The frost is on the punkin."

"Judge, look around you. We're in Malibu. We don't have frosts. And we're conspicuously out of 'punkins', too."

"_Plumb _outta punkins. That's the problem."

"Okay. We're _plumb _outta punkins. I'll go get you some if that'll make you feel better." Mark watched the judge shake his head morosely. "I know what you mean. You miss the seasons you had in Arkansas." He looked up at the cloudless blue and quirked his mouth wryly. "Out here, all we have is summer and rainy season."

Hardcastle snorted. "Yeah. We go from t-shirts to rain gear." He sighed again. "Ah, well, I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Forget it." He picked up the newspaper again. "Hey, you hear anything about the Celtics today?"

Mark grinned at him. "You know, Judge, one of the things I really like about you is the way you feed me straight lines."

"Huh? What?" The older man glanced up from the sports section to see Mark holding out a legal-sized envelope with an embossed golden crest on it. He took it, examined it, asked, "They need you back there again?"

"Well, I thought maybe we'd _both _go. I mean, there's got to be plenty of frost in Scotland in October, and I bet we could even find you a few pumpkins. Whaddaya say? Hallowe'en at Blackthorne this year? You could dress up in your kilt and scare all the kiddies." McCormick stood up and watched Hardcastle skim through the letter from the Blackthorne estate manager. "We'll figure out what's going on, do a little fishing, wear a few sweaters. I'll go call the pool guys and the landscapers."

The judge wrinkled his brow and read aloud, "'A few indications of prowlers . . . possibly seeking to gain entrance'; don't like the sound of that."

ooooo

McCormick pulled the rental car up in front of the main entrance steps and tapped the horn twice before climbing out.

Immediately, the butler and the estate manager hurried from the ornate double doors and down the steps.

The estate manager won the race and grasped Mark's hand enthusiastically. "Lord McCormick, welcome home!" He winked at Mark's grimace and added, "It's only this once, I do assure you. How grand it is to see you again."

"Same here, but if I hear that 'Lord McCormick' again, I'm leaving," Mark grinned. He passed Mr. Randolph on to the judge and turned to greet the butler, hovering anxiously nearby. "Mr. Holden, you're looking good."

Holden beamed at him and shook his hand vigorously. "And you, my lord. And you. I hope we see you well, sir?" He gestured for the maids to advance down the steps. "We'll have that luggage bestowed in a trice, and Mrs. Tremaine has tea ready for you in the blue drawing room." He turned to the judge and extended a hand. "Milt!"

"Fergus, how ya been?" Hardcastle greeted his fishing partner with a grin. "Hey, we got three suitcases this time 'cause one's full of avocados. Mrs. Tremaine said something about a church-lady lunch she wanted to do, so . . ." He reached into the back seat, pulled out a canvas-sided bag and handed it over to the younger maid, Martin.

"Indeed, she's been wanting to give them one in the eye since Miss MacIntyre gave the ladies a lobster quiche feast. With home-made éclairs to finish, I'll have you know." Holden jerked his chin back toward the house. "There's nothing like a woman scorned, and she's been feeling feisty ever since."

The feisty cook had prepared a lavish tea for the Lord of Blackthorne and his guest. "Mark, my dear," she cried as they walked into the blue drawing room. "And Mr. Hardcastle, sir." She wavered between offering a hand or a hug until Mark swept her up in an affectionate embrace and the judge followed suit, a trifle less extravagantly.

"Now, here's your tea," she said, breathlessly adjusting her cap. "I remembered you preferred coffee and those little shortbread biscuits, and there's wee smoked trout sandwiches and some treacle tarts and fruitcake." She ushered them into plush armchairs, then picked up a silver coffee service tray from the butler's stand and laid it ceremonially on the Queen Anne table before them. "I'll just see to the baggage and you ring if there's anything else." She cast one last look at Mark as she closed the door. "It's so good to see your lordship back again."

Mark waved Randolph and Holden into chairs opposite him and the judge. "You guys want some of this? She made enough for eight people." He piled shortbread onto a gilt-edged china plate and poured himself coffee while Hardcastle opted for three miniature tarts. Settling back into his chair, Mark sampled the shortbread, licked crumbs from his lips and said, "So, what's the story with the prowler?"

Holden and Randolph looked at each other, then Holden poured coffee for the two of them and, offering one to the estate manager, spoke up. "We've noticed for the past two weeks or so that someone's been getting into the grounds at night and fooling about in the shrubbery."

"You must understand that there was no real damage done," Randolph assured the Americans. "A few branches were broken and the ground disturbed at the foot of the wall. As though someone were looking for something buried there, perhaps."

"We set a watch, of course, stayed up all the night," added the butler. "No one appeared. So we did something we thought rather clever." He glanced at Randolph smugly. "It was my idea. We sprinkled flour around the base of the walls where we'd found the traces of intrusion." He sighed. "Unfortunately, none of the flour was disturbed and yet we saw distinct signs of an intruder the next morning. It's given rise to talk of a ghost."

Another voice spoke from the just-opened door. "It's not _our _ghost, however. Good day to you and welcome, Lord McCormick. Mr. Hardcastle." The housekeeper, a stern and regal woman with iron-gray hair in a carefully-pinned bun, closed the door behind her and entered. "_Our _ghost is far too well-mannered to behave in such a fashion, frightening the maids and making a fuss."

Mark swallowed the last of the shortbread and motioned to Mrs. Hoskins to sit, but she refused with a headshake. "So, you think it's a _new _ghost?"

"I do not. I believe it's a human agency and that you'll find it to be sheer prankishness. Perhaps some of the school children think it a lark." She sniffed scornfully. "The vicar disagrees, but he is such an unworldly man."

"Ah, if only Dougal were here." Randolph delicately selected a trout sandwich. "He's away on his 'dig', you know." He leaned conspiratorially toward Mark. "In Ireland. _Cairns_," he said in a near whisper.

McCormick nodded somberly and covered his smile with his napkin.

Hardcastle poured himself another cup of coffee. "You know, Mrs. Hoskins, I was brought up to stand when a lady enters a room. If you don't sit down real soon, I'm gonna have to drink this standing up." He smiled up at her slyly, then nodded in satisfaction as she reluctantly sat, perched on the very edge of her chair. "There ya go. Now, nobody's seen anything, there's no evidence that anything's been damaged, no crime committed except trespass, right?"

The Blackthorne employees all nodded.

"So, you've talked to the local police and what did they say?"

"They advised us to lock the gates and hire a watchman," said Randolph indignantly. "As though we couldn't handle this ourselves."

Holden leaned forward to add, "And since there's been no damage done, they were extremely reluctant to take a report of any kind. They said to 'wait until something happened'." He waved a hand angrily. "What they would want to happen I don't know, but when _I _was a lad, the police would have been more respectful of the position we're in."

"And more responsive, too," added Randolph. "We were most disappointed at their attitude."

McCormick leaned forward to put his cup and plate on the table, flinched slightly when Mrs. Hoskins clicked her tongue, and then moved them carefully onto a linen napkin. "Well, they probably have more important things to take care of," he suggested mildly. "Robberies and arson and things like that."

"It was my thought, after the failure of the police to display an appropriate interest, that we should perhaps have one of those societies send an investigator. To determine if the source of the nuisance _is . . . _eh, well now, shall we say 'non-human'?" Holden fidgeted in his chair.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Hoskins briskly. "If it were a spirit of some sort, then we should simply ignore the poor creature. It is, however, an entirely human agency and appropriate measures should be taken. _I _suggest traps."

"Nay, now, not traps!" exclaimed Randolph, echoed by the butler.

"Hang on a minute," said Hardcastle, holding up a hand. "You've got broken branches and dirt dug up, so it's not a ghost, okay?"

"But the flour, Milt. It was completely undisturbed." Holden looked at him anxiously. "We all saw it the next morning."

Mark shrugged. "The guy just sprinkled more flour over his footprints. You wouldn't be able to tell."

Randolph and Holden looked at each other. "Fergus," said the estate manager, "we're two old fools."

Mrs. Hoskins looked primly smug, but said nothing.

"So, what's the objection to locking the gate so whoever it is doesn't get in?" The judge put an elbow on the chair arm and leaned his chin into his palm. "It's an awful high wall and that gate's pretty solid looking."

"It's near to All Souls Day, you see, Milt." Holden folded his hands together on his knee. "It's traditional for the Lord of Blackthorne to open the estate for the week before, to receive the well-wishers of the season and then, on Hallowe'en night, the wee guisers."

"Hallowe'en? Guisers?" Mark asked curiously.

"Naturally! Scotland's a civilized country!" Randolph spoke up with a twinkle in his eye. "Of course, our customs do not conform exactly to what you call 'trick or treat'. The bairns come 'round in their costumes and offer a small performance, a poem or a joke or a song. Then they're rewarded with some sweeties and go along to the next place."

"In the past, we've had a more elaborate celebration." Mrs. Hoskins spoke quietly and reminiscently. "Before the old lord fell ill, we'd have treacle scones on strings and apples in a tub, a prize for the best costume, a bonfire, cider and pies for the parents." She fell silent, with a somewhat sad expression on her face.

Mark took a deep breath. "Well, we could do that again, I suppose. If you wanted to." He looked at the people who thought of themselves as 'his servants'. "It would be a lot of work for you, since I don't know anything about it, but it would be a nice thing for the kids, I guess."

"And it would give us a chance to catch the prowler." Hardcastle smiled thoughtfully and rubbed at his nose. "What better opportunity could the guy have than when the place is full of kids running around, making a lot of noise?" He saw the look of dubiety on McCormick's face and added, "So what've we got to lose? And you couldn't ask for better cover."

ooooo

McCormick, on his way to the kitchen to check on the avocado shipment, paused when he saw Mr. Randolph making discreet little head motions toward the estate manager's office.

"Something up?" asked Mark, closing the door quietly behind him.

Randolph sighed deeply, gestured toward a chair and assumed his own behind the desk. "I have been reluctant to acquaint the rest of the staff with this information. However," he placed his elbows on the desk surface and steepled his fingers before his face, "at this point, you must be apprised of our financial situation."

Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I thought we were doing pretty good, all the tourists and weddings and stuff. The last quarter's numbers looked great."

"They were. Unfortunately, bookings for the events at Blackthorne are made far in advance. We are experiencing a significant, I might even say a _catastrophic _drop-off in reservations." Randolph shrugged. "Perhaps we were merely a fad?" He handed over a plain folder to McCormick. "Or perhaps we have too much competition. There are numerous places offering medieval feasts now, and even jousting tournaments."

"Hmm," McCormick thumbed quickly through the folder's contents. "It doesn't look good, I'll say that. But maybe it's just the time of year?" He looked up hopefully. "Maybe it'll pick up right before Christmas."

The estate manager nodded dubiously. "It may. Indeed, I will say it _must_. If business continues to fall off, we shall have to consider laying off some of the staff."

"Oh, no, come on," Mark protested. "Things aren't _that _bad, are they?" He shook his head. "There's gotta be something we can do, something that nobody else does. Something special."

Randolph rested his hands on his desk and leaned forward. "If your lordship can think of anything, I would be most appreciative. As the most-recently hired employee, I would be compelled to volunteer to be the first to resign my position here."

"You're not an employee," said McCormick distractedly. "You're part of the place. There's _got _to be something we have that nobody else does." He looked up, a serious expression on his face. "Give me a while to figure something out, okay?"

"I am sorry," Randolph said mournfully. "This must be a terrible burden and responsibility."

"Hey," Mark smiled at him, "an Earl's gotta do what an Earl's gotta do."

ooooo

"Vicar! How nice of you to call. Are you here to see Lord McCormick?" Holden ushered Vicar Thomas into the great hall and took his jacket and hat.

The thirtyish, cheerful-faced vicar nodded. "Just a welcoming visit, you know. I thought it would be appropriate. If he's available?"

"'Course he is." Judge Hardcastle waved from the door of the drawing room. "Come on in, Vicar." He disappeared from view, but voices floated out the door into the hall.

Vicar Thomas smiled at Holden and approached the door, listening to a female voice listing items.

"Cider, buns, sweets, biscuits, cocoa, beer, tea, and cakes. That's the refreshments. Now, the bonfire – oh, Vicar, good morning." Mrs. Tremaine turned and ushered the vicar to the armchair next to the Lord of Blackthorne. She turned to his lordship, said, "I'll have Mrs. Hoskins bring the list of things for the bonfire and the decorations," and bustled out of the room.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Thomas." Hardcastle extended a hand, then Mark reached across the table to shake with Thornecroft's vicar.

The vicar smiled at the two of them and gestured at the door. "Sounds like you're going to revive the harvest celebration. Refreshments? Decorations?"

Mark heaved a small sigh. "It sounded like a good idea at the time." Then he quirked a wry smile. "Besides I don't have to do most of the work."

Vicar Thomas grinned at him. "And perhaps I could offer some help. The decorations, for example. The Women's Institute is fitting up the church and I'm sure they'd be glad to help out here at the manor, too. It's just apples and nuts, winter squash, sheaves of wheat, that sort of thing."

The judge murmured, "Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves . . ."

"We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves," finished up Mr. Thomas. "Indeed. The harvest celebration is one that easily transferred from pagan times to Christian. The giving of thanks for a good harvest --"

"Praying for a better one next year," smiled Hardcastle.

The vicar chuckled. "Yes, that, too. But that's just a human instinct, isn't it? To wish for better, or more." He lowered his head and frowned suddenly. "In fact, I've seen quite a bit of that in the Women's Institute recently. A distinct lack of charity, a desire to overtop another. Oh, dear. I didn't mean to share my troubles with you."

Mark grinned at him. "The lunches? We've heard." He waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "We're accomplices, in fact. We brought avocados."

Mr. Thomas rested his head in his hands briefly, then peeped up between his fingers. "Perhaps

a decisive victory would put an end to conflict. One must hope." He smiled suddenly. "And the food is always excellent."

Mrs. Tremaine appeared at that moment with a silver tray of pots and cups. "Coffee for his lordship and Mr. Hardcastle, tea for you, Vicar. _And _a few of my rock cakes." She smiled primly as she placed the tray on the table, then added, "And the avocados will be stuffed with wee shrimp in a lemon mustard sauce, with fresh dill as a garnish. If _that _doesn't settle her hash, my name's not Ivy Tremaine!" She nodded briskly and trod out of the room.

"Sorry, Vicar. We didn't know." The judge looked at him apologetically.

Mark picked up the tea pot and asked Mr. Thomas, "Tea?" At his nod, Mark poured, then poured coffee from the larger pot into the other two cups and passed one along to the judge. He leaned back in his chair and sipped thoughtfully. "So this harvest festival was originally pagan? But it's okay with the church now?"

"Oh, yes, it's been quite subsumed. Most folk don't even think about the origins of the celebration." Mr. Thomas stirred his tea, looking out the window to the garden thoughtfully. "The church renamed things, you see. All Saints' Day, All Souls' Day. It was always a time of celebrating the harvest of the crops, the changing of the season, you see. In fact, I believe Samhainn was considered the beginning of the new year in times past. Families would set a place at their table for the honored dead and place a candle in the window to guide them home. I've often thought that was the origin of the candle in the turnip." He sampled his tea, which gave McCormick a chance to interrupt.

"Turnip? Not a pumpkin?" Mark shot a laughing glance at the judge, who buried his face in his cup.

The vicar shook his head. "No, indeed. A large turnip --" he held up his hands six inches apart -- "was hollowed out and a small candle placed inside. We still see some in the village every year. The wee ones like to carry them when they go out guising."

"Guising, now," the judge reached to set his cup back on the silver tray. "That's what we'd call trick-or-treating, right?"

"Ah, well, I believe so. However, a small offering of some sort is required here, you see. A joke is told, or a story, a poem would be recited, or a musical instrument played, then the guiser is rewarded with a gift of sweets. But there's no thought of preventing damage or 'tricks', no bribery, just an exchange of candy for a performance." Vicar Thomas smiled down into his cup. "I've always enjoyed the harvest festival a great deal."

"Well," Mark finished his coffee also, "Mrs. Hoskins is in charge of things here. More tea?" At the vicar's head-shake, he continued, "She knows all the stuff that used to be done – the bonfire and the scones on strings and all -- and how to do it. But if you have extra decorations, we sure wouldn't say no. Is there anything we can do to help out at the church?"

"Oh, no, indeed, no. I thank you for the offer, but we have things well in hand. Perhaps you remember Mrs. Wilks, from the fête last summer? She's done a marvellous job of organizing things for us. And she has a real gift for finding things that have been lost for years."

Hardcastle grunted at that. "Well, whether she's got a gift or not . . ."

"Hey, Judge," Mark suddenly sat up straight. "Maybe she could tell us who's sneaking around at night!"

The vicar looked puzzled. "Are you having trouble with poachers? At this time of year?"

"Nah, nah," the judge threw out a hand and waggled it briefly. "It seems there might be somebody coming in at night and rooting around in the bushes at the foot of the walls. I dunno. Maybe it's just somebody trying to make people nervous 'cause it's close to Hallowe'en or something. But we promised we'd try to figure out who it is."

Mr. Thomas frowned. "I doubt if Mrs. Wilks could help with that. I'll certainly mention it to her, but I don't think anyone around here would do such a thing. Oh, but --" He broke off suddenly, chagrined.

"But?" asked Mark in a wheedling tone.

Vicar Thomas drew himself up with dignity and said, "I'm certain no one in this area would do such a thing. It only occurred to me that there is a newcomer here, Mr. Owens, but he is a quiet man who keeps very much to himself. He is a scientist of sorts, a naturalist, I think. He is not as well-known to me as the rest of my flock, but I'm certain he would never trespass on your grounds and beg you to believe that I harbor no suspicions toward him whatsoever."

ooooo

The wind whistled over the fields and found more than a few windows to rattle on its passage to Blackthorne. There, it moaned through the trees, tossing them briskly side to side, and finally rushed against the stone walls of the manor house. The pale, gibbous moon looked down on the furtive figure scrabbling in the dirt of the formal garden, muttering to itself and casting quick, fearful glances at the house. A clock could just be heard striking three as the cloaked figure crept silently away.

ooooo

"Bettina! How lovely! But are you certain the church won't use it?" Mrs. Hoskins took the enormous cornucopia from the paper bag and held it up with both hands.

Mrs. Wilks grinned at her. "There were two of them! Right in the back of the wardrobe, covered with that awful plastic Easter grass. Vicar says one's enough for the altar, and besides, it's Christian charity to share, isn't it?"

Mrs. Hoskins nodded briskly and said, "It'll go on the long table right at the door. With the gold runner underneath."

"And here are some nuts, we've more than plenty, and apples, and a few gourds if you need them." Bettina Wilks proffered a plastic shopping bag, then turned to look at the door to the parlor. Just as it opened, she called out, "Good afternoon, my lord!"

Mark peered out and immediately recognized the 'fortune-telling gypsy' from the chuch fête. "Bettina," he said happily and held out a hand. "Hey, Judge, look who's here."

Hardcastle followed McCormick into the hall, greeted Bettina cordially, and inspected the decorations. "Nice, real nice. We got a bunch of wheatsheafs out back to go with them. No real pumpkins, though." He sighed theatrically, and Mark rolled his eyes.

"Oh, there'll be a pumpkin here," said Mrs. Wilks confidently.

The two men looked at each other and Mrs. Hoskins shook her head. "Pumpkins, is it now? Excuse me, I'll just go arrange this."

As she went over to the long mahogany table set against the wall, Bettina looked around curiously. "You haven't seen your ghost for a while, have you?"

"Nope. Not this trip," the judge shook his head.

"But you will. She's getting a trifle impatient with you. She wonders when you'll find the treasure." Bettina's eyebrows drew together and she squinted up the stairs. "It's been here for quite some time, it seems." Her brow cleared and she rubbed her hands together energetically. "Now, we have some orange and brown ribbons left over if you need. And there's plenty of crabapples if you want a touch of red."

McCormick cleared his throat and smiled tentatively. "Well, we're kinda leaving all that to Mrs. Hoskins. But crabapples would be real nice, I guess, huh, Judge?"

"Yeah, they would. But, we're just on our way to see that new guy, Owens." Hardcastle rubbed his chin meditatively. "Would you happen to know anything about him?" He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows hopefully.

Mrs. Wilks put on an introspective look, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes. "Mr. Owens . . ." she said in a dreamy tone, "he's from the South, Kent, I believe. He raises sheep and makes his own cheese. He has red hair and . . . likes Argyle Lager." She opened one eye and peeped at them impishly. "Or at least so my husband tells me from meeting him in the pub."

ooooo

"Yes, I'm Owens. And you are . . .?" The lanky, red-haired man leaned against his spade and looked at the two men before him with suspicion. He was in his early fifties, weather-beaten, clad in denim overalls and a cloth cap.

"My name's Hardcastle," the judge held out a hand, which Owens took gingerly. "This is . . . ah, Lord McCormick." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder.

"Just McCormick is fine, or Mark," he put his hand out past the judge. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that 'Lord McCormick' stuff."

"Pleasure," Owens took his hand back, touched it to his cap briefly. "Is there something I can do for you?"

The judge looked around at the fenced acres surrounding bright green grass. Several long-haired sheep were visible next to a structure that was vaguely barn-like, and a few lambs were gambolling in the afternoon sun. "Well, I grew up on a farm and I always had an interest in sheep," he said conversationally. "I got a few acres myself now--"

Lord McCormick snickered to himself, picturing sheep on the Gull's Way lawn, drinking out of the fountain.

"-- And I heard you were trying some new breeding techniques and thought maybe I could pick up a few tips. McCormick, here, he's not that interested in raising sheep and feed crops, but if you've got a little time, I've got some questions about a coupla breeds and the moisture content of grass." Hardcastle looked at him hopefully. "I've heard you're pretty much an expert."

Owens tilted his head and inspected the judge carefully for a few second, then nodded. "Right. Where would you like to start?"

An hour later, Mark was still watching the lambs frisking in the field, when Hardcastle and Owens rounded the corner of the barn.

"So if a ewe will breed in April, she'll breed again in October. I've proven that conclusively. Just look at those. That's my proof." He pointed at the lambs just as one leaped straight up into the air.

Mark laughed and shook his head. "Judge, did you see that! They're all doing it, just straight up and then they chase each other."

"Sure," Hardcastle replied, coming to lean against the fence. "They're playing. Young animals do that, ya know."

"Yeah, but I never saw any lambs before. They're awful cute. I'm glad you're gonna get some at home," said Mark with a sly look.

The judge harrumphed and turned to face Owens again. "Listen, I won't take up any more of your time, but I sure do appreciate all you've told me. And I'll send you that seed as soon as we get back."

He and Owens shook hands again, and the judge plucked at McCormick's sleeve to pull him from the fence. "Come on, sport, time to get back."

"Hey, wait. Are these a different kind of sheep, Mr. Owens? They've got those real long tails." Mark scratched at his curly head. "I've only seen pictures of lambs, but they all have those little short tails, not like these."

Owens smiled slightly. "They just haven't been docked yet, your Lo – Mr. McCormick. We'll put a tight rubber ring around those tails and, in a couple of weeks, they'll fall off and the sheep will look just like those pictures you've seen."

Mark was horrified, but the judge tugged at him again and explained, "They gotta do it, kiddo. If they don't, the sheep get all, um, _messy_, and it attracts flies and it's not healthy for them. Not _hygienic_, see?" He waved at Owens from the side of the rental car and Owens nodded back, made a gesture with his shovel and strode off in the direction of the barn.

McCormick drove off, casting a reluctant look back at the lambs in the pasture. "Doesn't it hurt?" he asked plaintively.

"Mmm, it's probably uncomfortable, but trust me. They're better off, okay?" Hardcastle rolled down the window on his side and leaned out to sniff the air. "Smell that? Wood smoke. There's a real nip in the air this afternoon. We could have a fire in the drawing room tonight."

"So, what did you find out about Owens?" Mark took the right turn into a small dirt lane leading back toward Thornecroft.

"He's an okay guy, I think. A little shy 'cause he's new here and he's got some new ideas about breeding sheep and what kinda grass crop to feed them. He's been experimenting with some rye grass, but he's not real happy with it. I promised to get him some Kentucky Bluegrass seed. The guy knows his stuff. He's done all kinds of soil research up here. Hey, look at that hillside; it's covered with heather. See, it's starting to turn brown 'cause the nights are getting cold."

McCormick grinned. "Up here, we call that a brae," he said, carefully rolling his 'r'.

The judge covered his smile with a hand. "Oh, yeah? You learning the lingo, huh? Well, just don't go wearing that kilt at home. I got a reputation to uphold, ya know."

"Och, I ken," said McCormick with a straight face.

ooooo

Dinner at Blackthorne Manor that night was served family style, with several dishes on the handsome sideboard and the second-best china. Mrs. Hoskins sniffed in disapproval, but understood the necessity for what Mr. Randolph kept referring to as a 'pow-wow'.

"So we expect, what, fifty to sixty people to show up, off and on, tomorrow?" Hardcastle sat down with his plate loaded with roast chicken and mushrooms.

Holden nodded and swallowed his first mouthful of herbed barley. "Most right around seven, more than half. The rest will trickle in after their dinners and have a glass of cider, watch the kiddies 'doukin fir aiples', then say their good-nights."

"It's just a large open house, with refreshments." Mrs. Tremaine nodded when Mark offered her the bowl of peas. "People will exchange the greetings, complain about their crops a bit, enjoy the costumes and be off."

Mark rested an elbow on the table, caught Mrs. Hoskins' scandalized look, removed it immediately, and said, "And meanwhile, we'll have all the outside lights on so why are we expecting anybody to sneak in and do whatever it is that they do?"

The judge wiped his mouth on his linen napkin. "This chicken is great, Mrs. Tremaine." He loaded his fork up again and said, "It's too good a chance for him to miss. All those people, it widens the field of suspects. He'd be an idiot not to take advantage of the situation." In went the fork and the judge made an mmm-ing noise.

"So, you just hide out there in the bushes and hope nobody spots you?" McCormick was clearly dubious.

"We're just there to jump out and scare the kids when they leave, that's all," said Hardcastle complacently.

Holden nodded. "That's right. We can claim it's some odd American custom. People will believe the most outrageous things about Americans." He caught a disapproving look from Mrs. Hoskins and quickly added, "_Some _Americans, that is." He cleared his throat and devoted himself to his dinner.

McCormick grinned at him. "That's okay, these Americans have done some pretty odd stuff." He turned to the judge. "Should we tell 'em about the leprechauns?"

Hardcastle shook his head vehemently. "I'm _not _wearing make-up this time, and there aren't any skunks in Scotland." He paused with another forkload of chicken and looked around the table. "_Are _there?"

ooooo

Shreds of cloud tore across the face of the moon as the wind moaned through the nearly-leafless trees. A few small creatures scuttled through the dry grass, then froze in terror as the shriek of an owl on the hunt ripped through the misty night. The thin figure cloaked in black also froze for moment, then resumed its careful, quiet digging.

ooooo

The morning of October 31st dawned bright and clear, and the manor was bustling with activity before the sun was truly up. Breakfast was a hasty affair of toast and tea (coffee for the American lord and his friend) and bacon. Men from the village began delivering logs for the bonfire and Mrs. Hoskins had two women in to help with cleaning the rooms that would be open to the public for the celebration.

Hardcastle noticed a few discreet winks from Mrs. Tremaine and the slightly lowered chin from McCormick that was his subtle acknowledgement and agreement, and, sure enough, directly after that the cook cleared her throat and addressed Mark in a just noticeably affected voice.

"I wonder, Mark, could you run into the village for me? I need a few things from the store. Here's a list."

McCormick took the piece of paper from her and looked it over. "Sure. I'll be as quick as I can."

"Hey, you want some company?" The judge smiled artificially. _You need better accomplices, kiddo. These people aren't up to your level._

Holden spoke up from the butler's pantry. "Oh, Milt, I was hoping you'd help me with the furniture. We've moving some of the long tables into the great hall for tonight."

_So they're all in on it, whatever it is. _"Sure, Fergus, no problem." Hardcastle shrugged mentally and went to help move tables.

McCormick missed lunch, but nobody commented on it. Soon afterward, though, he strolled into the kitchen and gave a discreet thumb's up when he thought the judge wasn't looking. Both Holden and Mrs. Tremaine smiled broadly at him, and the judge preserved his air of non-concern with difficulty.

By dinnertime (an hour early), Blackthorne Manor was cleaned, prepared, and waiting for guests in an atmosphere of happy anticipation. The bonfire was ready to light, the tubs of water and the apples were set, the treacle scones sat messily on a tray in the kitchen, and there were enormous bowls of bulls-eyes, lollies, and humbugs on the credenza in the main hall.

Holden cast a glance at the clock, just a minute or two before six, and herded the rest of the staff into the parlor 'just to go over things once more', Mark looked at his watch and said "Back in a sec," and the judge was left standing alone in front of the door just as the bell clanged.

"Hey, get that, Judge, willya?" yelled McCormick from the back of the hall.

Scowling ferociously and ready for nearly everything, Hardcastle yanked the door open to find a small figure with a paper sack.

"Trick or treat!" squeaked a tiny boy dressed as the Lone Ranger.

A stunned judge gawked at the child, no more than six years old and two-and-a-half feet tall, complete with cowboy hat, six-shooter in a holster, and familiar black mask. The boy began to speak in a high, stilted voice, his breath coming in puffs of white in the cold night air.

"The air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock."

The assembled crowd behind the judge broke into hearty applause and the tot nodded and beamed at them. "And here's for you, sir, with his lordship's compliments." He extended the paper sack to Hardcastle, and added, hopefully, "Sweeties?"

Mrs. Tremaine bustled forward to the judge's side and extended her hand to the boy. "Jemmy Bates, here are your sweeties. Now," she shook her finger at him good-naturedly, "don't eat them all at once, do you hear?"

McCormick came forward and grinned at Jemmy and nodded. "Great job. Thanks, Jem."

As the boy turned to leave, his treats securely in his fist, the judge looked at Mark skeptically from under his brows. "Is there something alive in this bag?"

"Ah, well, it _was_," said McCormick thoughtfully. "But I think maybe it's dead now. Go on, open it!"

Hardcastle hefted the sack, then slowly, cautiously opened it and peeked inside. "What the . . ." and removed a small orange gourd.

"I promised you a punkin, didn't I?" chortled McCormick. "Now you leave that outside tonight and it'll have frost all over it."

The judge stood, shaking his head, then said, "I don't believe this. And where'd you get the costume for the kid?"

McCormick took the 'punkin' from him and admired it. "I found a kid who's a cowboy fan in the village. He had the hat and the holster, we used a bandanna from Mr. Harman at the pub, and we ended up making the mask out of a black sock. But we couldn't find any cowboy boots, so we had to use Susan Crowell's riding boots instead."

"I never even noticed that," said Hardcastle, turning to look after Jemmy, who was running off as fast as he could in riding boots two sizes too large.

"But it had to be Jemmy who dressed up, 'cause he was the only one who could memorize the poem that fast. Hey, you want to make this a jack o'lantern?"

The judge took his punkin back and inspected it closely. "It's just about big enough for one of those little round candles. I wonder if I could carve a mask." He wandered off kitchenward, then turned just before he reached the green baize door at the back of the hall and called back, "Hey, if you're gonna stand there with the door open, put a sweater on!"

ooooo

The mayor of Thornecroft put a torch to the carefully-assembled bonfire, which obligingly caught after only a few seconds, and the village inhabitants cheered. He waved the torch a few times, then cast it onto the fire and walked over to the front steps for a well-earned glass of cider.

The small crowd of children were making a great deal of noise on the east lawn, bobbing for apples and trying to catch treacle-covered scones hung on strings using only their teeth. Mrs. Tremaine and Mrs. Hoskins stood by with several damp towels.

"Quite a show," said Hardcastle. "There must be forty or fifty people here, if you count the kids."

McCormick looked at him with a mock scandalized expression. "Of _course_ you count the kids. Hallowe'en is all _about _the kids." He looked around, found someone at his elbow wanting to shake hands and say 'Good harvest', and obliged. He turned back to the judge and added, "When am I supposed to take my turn hiding in the bushes?"

The judge took a sip of his cider and made a face at it. "This stuff's awful, not like _real _cider." He handed it to McCormick, who looked down at the mug of hard cider, then hid it behind the stone urn beside the door.

"I'm gonna go check on Holden right now. You wait here for him to come back, okay?" Hardcastle scanned the area, straightened his jacket, and strode casually down the steps and around the corner to the lawn and the rhododendrons.

Mark, left momentarily alone, tried counting the crowd around the bonfire, but the constantly shifting mass defeated him. He'd just given up when an elderly lady at the fringe of the crowd looked at the small balcony just above him and pointed, smiling gleefully. Others turned and followed her gaze, some obviously surprised and pleased, others just surprised.

Mark trod down the steps and looked himself, and there was the Blackthorne ghost, in full view of the townspeople. "Hey," he called up. "What are you doing out here in the open? Is everything okay?"

The wavery figure nodded regally and pointed a translucent hand to his side. As he expected, Mark found Bettina Wilks there. "Is she saying anything, or just watching the fun?" he murmured over the excited chatter of the village residents.

Bettina stared at the ghost for some seconds, then said slowly, "There's a secret room in the portrait gallery. That's where the treasure is . . . and she's getting a bit tired of waiting for someone to find it." She glanced up at Mark. "A treasure, in Blackthorne Manor?"

"Yeah," McCormick replied. "You said something about it before. Or _she _did, but it was you who . . . oh, never mind."

Bettina nodded understandingly. "Have you any idea of what it might be?"

"Nope. And look, can you tell her I'll look for it tomorrow?" Mark waved a hand at the bonfire, then at the children's party to the side. "There's kind of a lot going on right now."

"Well, you _could _tell her yourself, you know. She's dead, not _deaf_." Mrs. Wilks grinned up at him, then added, "She says she's waited this long already; another day won't matter. She wishes you a joyous Samhain, and says you should go find the judge in the bushes."

McCormick said, "Whoops," turned to run off, turned back to yell "Thanks" midway between Bettina and the ghost, turned again and sprinted for the east wing.

ooooo

Holden, Randolph, and Hardcastle were standing around a tall figure in a black cloak when he arrived. A tall, disconsolate figure, wringing its hands and moaning softly.

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. This is awful." A bony hand reached up and pushed the hood of the cloak back to display the sorrowful, deeply-disturbed face of Mr. Owens. He reached out to the judge. "Please. Please understand. I was doing no harm. Truly!"

Hardcastle scowled at him. "You wanna explain just what you _were _doing, then? Trespassing in the middle of the night, running through the bushes and rooting around in the ground?"

Owens hung his head. "You must promise this won't get out. I beg you." He wiped a shaking fist across his brow.

"No promises." Mark had joined the group. "But we'll listen." He cocked his head and said in a softer tone, "What's that in your hand?"

"A hyacinth bulb. A white hyacinth, _Hyacinthus orientalis_. I was planting them." He held out his hand, and there on the open palm, was a dull-brown bulb.

Randolph and Holden exchanged glances and nodded. "I believe I understand," murmured the estate manager.

"Well, I don't," said the judge testily. "You trespassed, in the middle of the night, wearing some kinda spooky get-up, to plant flower bulbs? I'm not buying that."

Owens looked at him pleadingly. "They're for Mrs. Hoskins. She loves hyacinths, but the people hereabouts believe they can't grow in this climate." He drew himself up just a bit. "But they're wrong. With the proper care, planted in a sheltered spot, _Hyacinthus _can flourish here. In the spring," he waved his hand toward the east wall, "the proof will be there, irrefutable proof. But now," he drooped again, "she'll be annoyed with me. I've embarrassed her."

"Mrs. Hoskins, huh?" Hardcastle rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "She doesn't know you're doing this?"

Owens shook his head mournfully. "It was to be a surprise. In the spring, when the hyacinths bloom, I'd no longer be such a newcomer, more an accepted member of the community, do you see? Then, perhaps, I could speak, could make my feelings known to her." His hangdog countenance lightened suddenly. "Is it possible, would you consider . . . I would swear to never enter the grounds again without permission. The planting is nearly done, I have only these four out of the fifty. Oh, Lord McCormick, Mr. Hardcastle, be merciful!"

Mark turned away to spare the poor man's feelings and noticed the judge was having trouble with his own expression. The Hardcastle nose-rubbing became more aggressive and Randolph and Holden had faded quietly away long since. Mark wiped the grin from his face and turned back. His eyes met those of the judge and he nearly lost control again.

"A-hum," Hardcastle muttered gruffly. He looked at McCormick. "Well, it's your estate, so you get to decide. Whaddaya think we should do?"

"Mr. Owens," Mark tried to look judicial, decided it was uncomfortable and abandoned the attempt, "as far as I'm concerned you were just starting a new Hallowe'en tradition. Every year, from now on, you can sneak over here and plant flowers. How's that?"

Owens' face lit up and he grabbed Mark's hand and shook it lustily. "The judgement of Solon! Fair but merciful! Thank you, thank you, a thousand times!"

"Okay, but right now, you get those last bulbs planted, then come on out around the bonfire and have some cider." The judge grimaced at the thought of the cider, then amended, "Or maybe some beer. You already got a costume on and nobody'll think anything about it when you show up."

"Yeah, mingle a little. Get to know people and let them get to know you." McCormick looked at the judge out of the corner of his eye. "People can surprise you when you really get to know them."

The sheep farmer bobbed a hasty bow, shook the judge's hand, shook Mark's again, never ceasing to express his gratitude and good intentions, and finally strode off toward the bonfire, hyacinths forgotten in his joyous relief.

Hardcastle looked after him, snorted and said pithily, "Solon." He snorted again.

"Oh, yeah? When's the last time you were compared to Solon?" McCormick preened himself smugly. "Hey, the ghost showed up."

The judge snapped his fingers in mock dismay. "And I missed it!"

Mark started walking back to the front of the manor. "She's getting antsy about us finding some treasure in a secret room. Bettina said it's in the portrait gallery. You up for a treasure hunt tomorrow?"

"We're _supposed _to go fishing tomorrow, remember?"

"So we find the treasure in the morning, fish in the afternoon." Mark put an arm around the judge's shoulders and grinned at him. "Come on, I'll get you some more cider."

ooooo

The rain started just after the sun rose and continued, sometimes just a drizzle but smashing against the windows at others, throughout the day. It was a perfect day for a treasure hunt. Mrs. Tremaine insisted on preparing a 'solid, nourishing breakfast' for his lordship and the judge, and they did full justice to it, reading _The Times of London _and _The Scotsman _over their salmon hash and fried potatoes.

Mrs. Hoskins acted much as she normally did, perhaps even statelier than usual, but someone must have hinted rather broadly, as she several times peeped out the windows in the east wing at the ground below. When she declared that shopping was absolutely necessary, no one noticed that she turned to the left at the end of the drive instead of the right, except those impertinent enough to spy out of the windows in the parlor, the hall, and the drawing room.

The lunch for the Women's Institute was scheduled for the next day, and Mrs. Tremaine started on the petits fours immediately after breakfast, looking rather grimly triumphant. "Lobster quiche and eclairs, indeed," she was heard to mutter, making an enormous Lady cake for a base. The kitchen maids had been given the day off to compensate for the extra labor of the Harvest Festival, and were seen to exchange congratulatory glances as they hurried out the kitchen door.

The men of the household finished their necessary daily tasks in record time and met in the portrait gallery at ten to begin the search for the secret room.

"How do we begin?" Mr. Randolph spread his hands and looked apologetic. "I am conspicuously lacking in experience of this sort."

Hardcastle waved toward the paintings on the walls. "Do we know there aren't any openings behind the pictures?"

Holden spoke up. "Oh, no. We take them down once a year to clean the frames and there's nothing like that anywhere."

"Well, then, I guess we oughta divide up the room and search it." The judge pointed to McCormick. "You take that side," he pointed to the east, "I'll take this side, and you two," he gestured to the butler and the estate manager, "each take one of the ends. Feel all along the trim, knock on the panels, check for any little depressions or pinholes or covered-over locks. Got it?"

Mark strode over to 'his' wall, saying "You musta been reading Nancy Drew or something, Judge."

"Hardy Boys," retorted Hardcastle.

"In books," said Mark, tapping thoughtfully on the east wall, "there's always some kind of gizmo that moves and a secret door opens."

"Yeah, the good guy leans up against a mantel and accidentally trips it, right?" The judge peered closely at a knothole, prodded it vigorously a few times, then moved on to the next section of wainscoting.

There was no result for the first half hour of searching, no sound but rapping and muttered imprecations, then Randolph straightened suddenly with a gasp. He tugged excitedly at a loose piece of trim by the door to the hallway, then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head in disappointment. "My apologies," he told the others. "It's merely a loose nail."

The search continued. At the end of another half hour, the group met again in the center of the room, sighing and scratching their heads. McCormick folded his arms across his chest and scowled.

"We're missing something," he stated.

Hardcastle scowled right back at him. "No kidding?" he said sardonically.

Mark waved a hand at him. "Listen. If there's nothing in the walls, what does that leave?" He looked around at the others. "The floor and the ceiling, right?" At their slow nods, he continued, "The floor's easier to search, so we start with that."

"Och! The hole!" shouted Holden, slapping his forehead. "The hole in the floor!" He reached out toward McCormick, remembered his training and changed direction suddenly, grabbing Randolph's shoulder and shaking it. "There was a bitty hole in the floor in the corner over there. It looked like it led into the linen closet next door and we had it covered over." Holden pointed with a tremulous finger. "Right over there! Och, we thought it was mice."

Hardcastle led the way. "Let's check it out, then. Exactly where?"

Right in the southeast corner, Holden went down on one knee and used his penknife to carefully pry out a round piece of inlaid wood, nearly an inch across. He put it in his pocket, and carefully explored the cavity below. "Hah!" he exclaimed. "My lord, here, a mechanism of some sort."

Mark sank to one knee and inserted his hand into the hole in the floor. A pensive expression formed on his face, and after a few seconds, a loud snap was heard, followed by a metallic click. One frame of the wainscoting slowly sank behind the square below it, revealing a wooden knob set into the wall behind the wainscoting.

"Who searched this wall?" said Randolph severely.

McCormick looked at him. "Me."

"Oh." The estate manager looked away in confusion, then murmured, "And it's impossible, I'm sure, to discover the devilish thing looking at the wall, too."

Hardcastle smothered a grin, and reached out to touch the knob. "Hmm, it doesn't turn," he tilted his head and considered for a moment, then pushed the knob gently.

Slowly, a two-foot section of wall swung inward, creaking and shedding dust in all directions. A small, unlit room was behind it, which could be seen to contain a small, low table; on the table was a wooden box.

"Hang on," directed Mark and sped away, returning after only a minute with two flashlights. "Who's in charge of this expedition anyway? We shoulda had these ready." He gave one to the judge, turned on the one he still had, and led the way into the tiny chamber.

The four men fit only by crowding and standing hunched under the low ceiling. A thick layer of dust covered both table and box, and the judge turned to McCormick.

"If you're taking charge, you shoulda brought some hankies, too." He waved the others to stand back, out of the secret room, and blew at the dust vigorously.

Several minutes later, the air had cleared enough to re-enter the room and inspect the box on the table. It was dark wood, nearly black, with gold-colored hinges, only about four inches tall, but twelve inches wide and long. It was also locked.

"So," said Holden cautiously, "the treasure is inside the box?"

"I guess." Mark shook the box very gently, but there was no sound from inside it. "Could be wrapped up in something, I guess."

The judge rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly. "Didya look at the bottom of the box? Sometimes they used to put the key there in a kinda hidden recess."

McCormick lifted the box carefully and inspected the bottom. "No key." He felt all around the sides, top and bottom with the same result. "What now, Kimo Sabe?"

Hardcastle looked at the dust-covered floor and cleared his throat. "I don't suppose you, ah . . . brought along those little evidence elf tools?"

"Judge! I'm surprised at you!" Mark assumed an exaggerated expression of shock, then grinned shamefacedly. "Actually . . . I guess it's just a habit. Hang on." He darted out of the tiny chamber.

"Evidence elf?" asked Randolph.

"Tools?" added the butler.

The judge made a face comprised of discomfort, reluctance, and discretion. "Long story," was all he volunteered.

Mark came skidding back to the narrow doorway of the room, raised another cloud of dust, sneezed twice, and said, "Dammit."

The men retreated to the portrait gallery again, waving their arms and coughing. As the dust re-settled, an opaque form could be made out behind the table.

Holden was the first to react. "Madam," he intoned, and bowed.

"Oh, my," was Randolph's response, with a belated and half-hearted bow of his own.

"Hmm," said the judge. He waved a hand in a brief greeting, then turned to McCormick. "Over to you, kiddo."

Mark took a breath, then said "Hiya." He grimaced at the judge's snort of amusement, but continued gamely, "So that's where the treasure is, huh?"

The wavery figure gestured in a flowing motion, seeming to beckon him into the room. He stepped in, followed, circumspectly, by the others.

"Um, so you want me to open the box, right? To find the treasure?" McCormick slowly extended a hand toward the box.

The ghost seemed to bend a gaze on him, and shook her head emphatically.

"You _don't_ want me to open the box?" asked Mark in surprise.

The opaque white shape shook her head again, and held her insubstantial hands over the box, then pointed at McCormick.

Mark pursed his lips in thought. "The box is mine, but you don't want me to open it?" he tried hopefully.

The ghost got a distinct look of annoyance on her translucent face. She pointed impatiently at the box again, jabbing her indistinct finger at it several times. At their dumbfounded looks, she put her fists on her hips and rapidly tapped a silent toe, before taking a deep unsubstantial breath and visibly calming herself. She smiled politely and held her hands behind the box, making as to push it over to McCormick.

"Do you want me to use my lockpicks?" he asked shyly.

The ghost shook her head in an extremity of impatience and pointed emphatically at the box with both hands. She threw up her chin, rolled her eyes, then made an enormous gesture encompassing the box with her ethereal hands and looked at the men as if to say, 'You see?'

"It's the box itself!" cried the judge.

The spirit cast up her hands, was seen to heave a deep sigh of relief, and vanished.

ooooo

The box was carefully taken to the blue drawing room, where there was room for all four to stand around a table while Mark used his picks, delicately cautious, to unlock it.

"Mrs. Hoskins is going to have a fit," whispered Randolph to the judge. "All this dust," he spread his hands wide, which released another cloud of floating particles slowly settling onto the azure Aubusson carpet.

"Aw, that's okay," Hardcastle whispered back. "We'll sic the Earl on her."

McCormick snicked back the lock, pocketed his picks, and looked around the table. "Well," he said quietly, "let's see what we've got." He lifted the lid, peeked inside, then opened it fully. "It's empty."

"Looks like a jewelry case or something." The judge pointed to a series of depressions inside the box. "See, that's where the rings would go."

Randolph took one look at the inside of the lid and his mouth fell open. He held out a hand, waved it frantically, then slapped himself on the chest. "The coat of arms!" He leaned closer, blinked rapidly, and straightened back up. "And the initials."

The butler peered over his shoulder at the inside lid. "Oh, good Lord above! It can't be!"

Hardcastle and McCormick looked at one another in puzzlement. "Yeah, it's kinda pretty, I guess," ventured the judge. "Nice red lion on that gold shield." He glanced at McCormick and shrugged, puzzled.

"The initials," Mark mused. "An 'M' and an 'S'. That doesn't sound like a member of the family."

"Mary Stuart!" the estate manager and the butler shouted in unison.

The judge slapped his forehead. "Mary, Queen of Scots."

"Yes!" Randolph felt for a chair and lowered himself into it. "And that's the coat of arms of the royal house of Scotland, the Stuarts!" He leaned his head against the tall back of the chair, eyes wide. "_Her_ jewelry case, Queen Mary Stuart. I cannot credit it!"

McCormick ran a finger over the edge of the box. "But she didn't live here, did she? I don't know a lot about her."

Holden stood next to him, hands clasped in front of his face, almost as though in prayer. "She lived in Edinburgh for a good part of her life. Blackthorne would only have been a . . . what, a three-hour carriage ride? She must have visited and left this here, to be treasured by the family as a memento of her stay."

"1500's?" guessed the judge.

Randolph nodded. "The middle of that century, poor lady." His eyes glistened with emotion barely held in check.

"So, this box," Mark stood back from it and looked at the other men, "is four hundred years old?"

Holden held out a hand toward the box. "Four hundred and fifty, more like. My lord, may I," he turned his head to Mark, "may I just touch it?"

McCormick nodded somberly and watched the butler place his hand on the side of the box, then reverently touch, with just the tip of his finger, the royal coat of arms embroidered onto the velvet lining of the lid.

"So, what are ya gonna do with it?" said the judge, himself extending a hand to caress the box.

Randolph looked up, a wide smile dawning, to find Mark looking at him meaningfully.

"We keep it," said Mark. "We put it in a glass case with the best security system money can buy and we put it in the Great Hall where people can look at it and wonder about it and appreciate it. It's the Treasure of Blackthorne."

ooooo

"We didn't get much fishing in, Milt." Holden shook his head mournfully. "And this weather was perfect for the art of angling."

The judge smiled at him ruefully and leaned closer to mutter, "I hate to say this, but these old bones of mine were getting kinda cranky just walking around in this 'perfect weather'. Fishing? Maybe next spring, huh?"

Mark shook Mrs. Hoskins' hand, then leaned close to whisper, "I like him. Good luck." To his utter astonishment, she blushed rosy-red and simpered at him.

Mrs. Tremaine offered a hug and a teary farewell. "And we'll see you back here for May Day, you hear me? I'm not taking no for an answer."

Hardcastle drew Randolph aside and asked the estate manager, "You got everything all settled with the security?"

"Oh, indeed, sir. I am most satisfied, as is his lordship. And, naturally enough, the case is insured for its full estimated value as a national treasure and heirloom."

"I don't think I want to know how much that is," the judge considered. "Hey, how did that lunch thing go yesterday?"

"Oh, the Women's Institute lunch, now, what a glorious triumph for Mrs. Tremaine. She stuffed those odd green fruits with small shrimp in a mustard sauce and the ladies each had three helpings, Miss MacIntyre herself included. I think the food feud has been abandoned."

McCormick joined them to say his goodbyes to Randolph and mused, "I may have to arrange a shipment of avocados every coupla months."

The judge tugged at his sleeve and, when Mark turned to look at him, shook his head somberly. "Bad idea, sport. I learned a long time ago to stay outta ladies' lunches. Nothing but trouble, I'm telling ya."

ooooo

"Glad to be back in 76-degree weather, Judge?" McCormick drove the last mile before the Gull's Way drive at very nearly the legal speed limit.

"Yeah, I guess a little bit of 'punkin frost' goes a long way."

Mark chuckled. "I am sorry you missed your favorite holiday, though." He glanced at his passenger briefly and slowed even further for the curve ahead. "It was nice of you to give up your annual Hallowe'en party to go with me."

"Ah, not a big deal. We can just have an even bigger one next year." Hardcastle shaded his eyes against the setting sun. "These time changes still drive me crazy. It's just going on six and the sun's almost down already."

McCormick flipped on his left turn signal and pulled into the drive and on under the arch

"Hey, what's going on here?" The judge turned to look at Mark with deep suspicion. There were cars lining the drive, at least a dozen of them, and multitudes of 'punkins' on the porch and steps leading to the front door.

Mark shrugged. "Looks like Frank's here. He's got a key. Maybe he brought some friends." He parked the Coyote in front of the gatehouse and levered himself out. "Let's go find out."

Hardcastle followed him across the little side lawn and up the steps, grumbling and grousing the entire way. "Leave the place alone for a week or two and come back to find parties going on, coulda asked me first, people all over the place, just listen to all that noise, gonna have the neighbors complaining again, all that mess to clean up tomorrow . . ."

McCormick held the door open and grinned at him. "You're welcome."

"Milt! You're back! And right on time, too." Mattie Groves appeared at the end of the hallway and posed in the kitchen doorway, displaying her flapper costume. "What do you think? Come on, we've got the punch just about ready and Charley's got the burgers going out by the pool. Mark," she tugged McCormick down to her level to give him a peck on the cheek, "welcome home and great idea. Or, should I call you 'Lord Mark'?" She smiled at him cheekily.

"You, dollface," he put an arm around her shoulders, "can call me anything. But hey, let's get this party going. Frank, hiya, how ya doing?" He called out to a Keystone Kops-clad Harper.

Frank closed the fridge door and turned, holding an enormous bowl of potato salad. "Mark, welcome back! Where's Milt?"

McCormick jerked his head back toward the front door. "He's here, but he's pretending he's sulking because it was a surprise. We'll be back in a few minutes." He gave Judge Groves another squeeze and a coy look. "Save me a dance, punkin."

"I've got you down for the Charleston," she responded gleefully.

Mark went back down the hallway and faced the judge, standing in front of the doors to the den. "Surprise!" he tried hopefully.

"It sure is," the judge replied with a grim face.

"Oh, come on, Judge. It's Hallowe'en, your favorite! I couldn't let you miss a Hallowe'en party on my account." McCormick spread his hands. "Okay, it's a coupla days late, but it's the thought that counts, right?" He smiled and looked at the judge from under his eyebrows.

"Don't try pulling that charm stuff on me. I've been onto your act for years now." Hardcastle sighed, shoulders slumping. "Okay, yeah, I guess it was kinda thoughtful, but you know I hate surprises. And besides, you shoulda got us some costumes to wear. We're gonna stand out like sore thumbs, McCormick."

Mark grinned at him and jerked a thumb at the stairway. There, at the foot of the steps, were two large cases. "Why do you think I had them ship our kilts back ahead of time?" he asked with a grin.

_finis_


End file.
